


The Wild Hunt

by Fluterbev



Category: Original Work
Genre: Folklore, Gen, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluterbev/pseuds/Fluterbev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herne’s son was brought before the Hunt. Standing quietly he betrayed no emotion but Herne, knowing his son, was undeceived. In a voice masking his own pain and sorrow he explained how it would be. “You will have until noon, then the Hunt will pursue you. The law of the Hunt is thus: that the pursuit will not cease until you are brought to ground, and that the Hunt must end in death. No quarter will be given.” Herne’s eyes, which promised no mercy despite their tie of blood, met his son’s as he added, “I am honour bound to pursue this end as relentlessly as any other.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original short story I wrote in 1998, whilst living in Co. Louth in the Republic of Ireland. It features the mythological figure of Herne the Hunter. It is not intended to depict the Herne who is found in Robin of Sherwood (which I am a huge fan of), but does draw, like that interpretation, on similar roots. 
> 
> At the time I wrote it I was pregnant with my older son, and was going through a phase of compulsively reading epic mythological sagas, including the _The Mabinogion_ and the _Táin Bó Cúailnge_ , as well as the novels of Alan Garner and Robert Holdstock, two writers who drew deeply from mythology in their works. 
> 
> I lived in Cooley (the Anglicised form of _Cúailnge_ ), in the very area where the events of in the _Táin_ reputedly took place. The hill I could see from my bedroom window - known locally as Trumpet Hill - was the place where CuChullainn swung his sling shot at the invading Connaught army, slaying 100 men with every rock. At that time I was spending each day walking the fields and woods around my cottage, visiting the ring forts, the dolmen and the other local early archaeological sites within a short walk from my house. 
> 
> All of that perhaps explains where my head was at when I wrote this. This story came to me in a very vivid dream which I was immediately compelled to write down.

Herne’s son’s transgression, although well intentioned, was deadly. The bandit he had felled with a sure, swift arrow had been no ordinary vagabond, but Rowan son of Thorn, son of Yearm, son of Farrow, and a direct descendant of the line of Urthew, who had been Lord of the Marshes even before the time Herne came to the forest.  
  
Thorn son of Yearm was now owed a debt of blood. Against the advice of his noble lords he appealed to Herne to raise the Wild Hunt to pursue his son’s killer, as was his right, and Herne could not refuse him, owing himself an old debt of honour to the descendants of Urthew. The fact that the quarry was his own son, and that the killing had been justified to save an innocent girl, could not sway him from this course.  
  
The hunt was summoned at dawn. Herne and Thorn rode at the head of the retinue. Behind followed ten nobles from the house of Urthew, and before them the dread uncanny hounds sniffed the air in excited anticipation.  
  
Herne’s son was brought before the Hunt. Standing quietly he betrayed no emotion but Herne, knowing his son, was undeceived. In a voice masking his own pain and sorrow he explained how it would be. “You will have until noon, then the Hunt will pursue you. The law of the Hunt is thus: that the pursuit will not cease until you are brought to ground, and that the Hunt must end in death. No quarter will be given.” Herne’s eyes, which promised no mercy despite their tie of blood, met his son’s as he added, “I am honour bound to pursue this end as relentlessly as any other.”  
  
Herne’s son bowed his head briefly in answer, then bravely met his father’s eyes one last time. Then, nodding to the Lord of the Marshes, he strode off into the forest and was gone.  
  
Following routes known only to him and Herne, he fled swiftly far into the heart of the ancient wood. There at mid-day, resting briefly and drinking from a stream, he heard the unmistakable baying of the fell hounds as they began their pursuit. A white stag, which had been drinking downstream unaware of the man whose exceptional stealth had allowed him to come so near, flared it’s nostrils in terror at the sound and fled into the trees.  
  
A lesser man might, like the stag, have panicked and fled, as all knew that the Wild Hunt never failed to bring down it’s quarry. But not so Herne’s son. He had learned from his father ways of disappearing into the forest unknown to other mortal men, and he made full use of those skills now. Until sundown he stealthily trod byways and ancient tracks until he could hear the hounds no more. Then he stopped to rest.  
  
He slept briefly, his head pillowed on a mossy mound, until the baying of the hounds disturbed his dreams. He opened his eyes to the blackness of the most ancient part of the forest, the huge trunks and enormous branches far overhead blocking out what little light the stars might lend. But the blackness was no obstacle to such as he, who had spent his life in this place, and he again began his stealthy evasion of the Hunt.  
  
The creeping dawn greyness heralded a second day of pursuit. Exhausted and hungry he paused to eat berries, edible lichens and fungi. Once a startled rabbit crossed his path but, despite his hunger, he hadn’t the heart to try and catch it.  
  
This day, no matter what path he trod, he heard always at the edge of his awareness the baying of the hounds. When night began to fall he dared not stop to rest, but continued his meandering path through the forest. The baying of the hounds haunted him, reminding him of haste, and twice he fell unexpectedly in the blackness, grazing his hands on stones and twigs.  
  
Another dawn began to suffuse the forest with a gentle green light, dew sparkling on spider’s webs. He had always loved the early morning forest, but now he had no time to drink in its beauty. The hounds were closing, and three times that morning he heard the hunting horn.  
  
Noon approached, and he dared not stop now even to drink from a stream. Several times he found himself momentarily lost before he was able to orient and decide which path to take. Twice more he fell. Then a third time he could not rise, but lay there panting, hearing all the time the baying and the horn. Despair overwhelmed him suddenly in the late afternoon sunlight, and he sobbed into the fallen leaves.  
  
Lying in the leaves, he cursed himself for a fool. In his conceit he had thought to evade the Hunt where lesser men had failed, sure of his own cunning. Now, at the end of his endurance, he realised that fleeing was futile. The Hunt would relentlessly pursue him, without rest, to his sure death.  
  
Calmer now, and resigned to the inevitable, he stood to await his fate. He could never outwit the Hunt. He would therefore face his death proudly. He was the son of Herne.  
  
The baying now surrounded the glade in which he stood. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, determined to show no fear, although his heart pounded in his ears. The first hound bounded into view snarling, and was quickly joined by its fellows. Swiftly they surrounded him and stood, teeth bared, in a close circle around him. He could smell their breath and body heat.  
  
The first horsemen entered the glade. Thorn son of Yearm was at the head, followed closely by Herne. Herne’s son met his father’s expressionless eyes as Thorn, with a cry, lifted his bow, an arrow pointing at the son of Herne’s heart. A crow, startled by the noise of men and horses, flew suddenly from the trees with a ragged croak, and the bowstring sang as the arrow let fly.  
  
The arrow thudded home into the body of Herne’s son. Knocked backwards by the blow he fell prone to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. As he looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead he realised dimly, and with some surprise, that he was still alive.  
  
Thorn son of Yearm was an excellent marksman. His quarry had stood still, presenting a clear target, but nevertheless the shot had not been clean. Herne’s son was hit in the shoulder and breathed yet. The Hunt, lasting three days and two nights without surcease had taken its toll on the mortal riders, and Thorn’s aim had been marred by exhaustion.  
  
Seeing that his quarry still lived, Thorn dismounted with an angry cry. Drawing his sword, he made to go to the prone body of Herne’s son to finish the job. He was halted by Herne, who having also dismounted, silently interposed himself between hunter and hunted.  
  
Thorn, exhausted, frustrated and humiliated, narrowed his eyes. “Out of my way. I have business to finish.”  
  
Herne stood unmoving. “You have felled your quarry. Your part in this is done.”  
  
“Not until he who killed my son is dead! We agreed this would be done.”  
  
“The quarry has been brought to ground. As the law of the Wild Hunt decrees, you as Hunter had first shot, as was your right, and you felled the prey. As Master of the Hunt, I now claim the kill for my own, as is my right.”  
  
Thorn regarded Herne silently for a moment, puzzled, chewing his moustache. “Very well,” he said finally. “Finish him.” Herne smiled grimly, and drawing his hunting knife, he turned to kneel by his son.  
  
Herne placed a hand on his son’s forehead, looking down at him with love and sorrow in his eyes. The young man regarded his father’s face. He had heard every word, and had seen the knife drawn. In a hoarse whisper, at the end of his endurance and courage, he begged tearfully, “Please father. Make it quick.”  
  
Herne nodded. Then in one fluid movement he tuned on his heel and threw the knife. With deadly precision it buried itself to the hilt in the breast of a white stag as it emerged suddenly and silently from the cover of the trees. The beast crumpled, its death instant and painless.  
  
Deathly silence fell suddenly in the glade. Then with a roar that shattered the peace, Thorn thundered, “What treachery is this?” His sword still in his hand, he made towards Herne, but in a thrice the fearsome hounds interposed themselves between, snarling a warning. He halted inches from the bared teeth of the nearest hound, the blood high in his face behind his two-day growth of beard.  
  
Herne stood. “Lord of the Marsh, the obligation of the Hunt is fulfilled. You the Hunter felled your quarry, and I the Master claimed the kill. The law of the Wild Hunt does not require that the quarry and the kill are one and the same, only that death concludes the chase. I invite you and your retinue to feast on venison this evening with me.”  
  
For a moment Thorn could not speak for anger. Then he suddenly laughed without humour. “Lord of the Forest. Right are those who decry you as treacherous, and the Wild Hunt as sport for you and no other. I admit you have won; indeed I can do no other whilst I bide in your domain. But I would rather starve than feast with you. And I will not stay in this forest a moment longer.”  
  
Herne nodded. “Then my blessing be upon you. Go in peace. The hounds will lead you to the edge of the forest.” Thorn nodded, and performed a mocking bow. Then he turned and mounted his horse.  
  
As the Lord of the Marshes turned to leave, Herne spoke again. “One more thing. I would caution you that the forest is full of danger to those who do not know it. You should counsel those who follow you to be wary should they enter here again. It is to my sorrow that your son did not understand his own danger. I would be disappointed should anyone else from your household engage in similar folly.”  
  
Thorn looked at Herne, a long look. Then he nodded. “Lord of the Forest. Good day”. Following the hounds, who led the way, Thorn left the glade without a backward glance, followed by his retinue.  
  
Herne knelt again by his son and kissed him on the brow, his own tears falling now unabashedly. Then tearing strips from his own cloak he bound the arrow wound. Before he had finished his son succumbed to unconsciousness.  
  
Herne’s son awoke, much later, to firelight and the smell of roasting meat. He recognised his father’s cave. His shoulder ached and, stirring slightly, he smelled the herbs in the poultice that bound it. His movement brought Herne to his side, holding a pot of clear spring water, which he drank thirstily. When his thirst was slaked, he lay back, Herne sitting beside him silently.  
  
Eventually, Herne's son ventured, “You couldn’t have known that his shot would be wide”.  
  
Herne bowed his head. “Nothing is certain, ever. But I had faith that you would survive. Thorn never realised that the Wild Hunt would tax his own strength, and he did not bargain for a quarry who would lead the Hunt relentlessly for three days and two nights. He did not know you, and your abilities, as I do”.  
  
Herne’s son lay in silence for a time, digesting his father’s words. Then, afraid of the answer, he asked haltingly, “And if the stag had not appeared when it did, what would you have done?”  
  
Herne’s eyes were hooded in the firelight, like the eyes of some woodland beast, his expression inscrutable. Behind his silence the fire echoed the sound of dry autumn leaves in a sudden shower, the tranquillity and stillness of the cave like that found in the most remote reaches of the forest.  
  
Then, his voice the voice of the wind in the leaves of the most ancient trees of the heartwood, he answered, “Some things I do not leave to chance. I am Herne”.


End file.
